Once Upon a Dream
by Hawley
Summary: Re-posting this on the account I can ACTUALLY remember a password to. Sequel to Young and Beautiful. It's been three years and Stuart's living in London, still confused to why his friendship with Murdoc ended and oblivious to the fact he's cursed. But when they meet again, things become even more confusing. Rated M because... who knows what'll happen?
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Notes: Thank you to every who read my last story – and new comers as well! You are the reason I decided to continue this story. I hope I don't disappoint you :)  
As usual, unless specified it'll all be in 2D's POV. **

_**(All Things – The Cinematic Orchestra)**_

So. We're back here again?

I remember his heavy eyes staring at me with a bitter coldness; a singular moment in my life (excluding Mum's outbursts) that left me shattered, almost unable to rebuild. She could never have loved me, and nor could he.

London is always bustling with too many people going about too many lives, but in my three years here after being sentenced to relocate schools after the crazy shit that went on in Gloucestershire, I've been able to figure out some back street ways to get from the faculty building to the place I now unfortunately find myself employed: Uncle Norm's.

" _I tell ya, Stu,"_ Uncle Norman would say at the end of each working evening, _"I can't stick this London game. Too many people."_

I nod in agreement at our similar thinking on that respect.

" _I miss our old Crawley... maybe I'll_ _move back_ _one day..."_

Maybe he will – but I won't be going with him.

The sun glints dirtily on the glass windows embedded into the skyscrapers, tiny uniformed ant people high in beautiful offices in the clouds, staring down at the rest of us subjected to the grimy earth. No matter how many alleys I wiggle into, the brawl of traffic never leaves, and as I find my way out of a particularly claustrophobic and narrow one, I'm met by the clash of skidding wheels as the immense metal circus rolls before me.

I stop and watch for a while, on the edge of the pavement of a busy main street as pissed off Londoners push through me, because it really _is_ like a circus: performers whizzing about on bikes, dangerously running through red lights and past the angry revving lion-cars that growl and snap at their heels – accompanying this scene, the huge steel scarlet elephant-buses glide past, completely oblivious to the chaos bellow.

"You wanna shift it?" Remarks a moody citizen in a sharp blue suit – maybe he worked in one of the sky towers.

"Yeh, sorry, mate." I'm brought out of my trance and start to walk away as the blue-suit-man shakes his head, disgusted at my friendly term, and briskly trots away. I roll my eyes and press the button at the edge of the road, awaiting the green man's signal of approval to well and truly "shift it" to work – I don't trust myself to maintain the concentration to not get hit by a car without the aid of traffic lights.

I sound pessimistic – one of the very good features London boasts is looming over me right now: the sky.

A whirling hue of grey has completely taken it over. For some, it's too gloomy and depressing, but I can't help this colour reminding me of a better time with a better person. The time in my life I was starting to feel at home in – but what's the use reminiscing? It never gets you anywhere.

After a few minutes of what must seem, to a stranger's perspective, like mindless ambling, I make my way towards the front door of my distant Uncle's keyboard shop – and my home.

It's not a big shop by any means, and it's not really keyboards either. That was the "dream" but Norm found it pretty tricky making a living just by selling those, meaning we have rows of all kinds of things: cellos, trombones, box drums, a whole bloody rack of triangles snagged from the charity shop for 50p or so.

" _Heh. Charity shops, Stu,"_ he'd chuckle to me after coming home from a night of heavy binging once, _"proper helper of the community, me."_

He'd walk ten miles if it meant saving one penny from going towards the proceedings of charity – luckily, his cheap nature outweighed his hateful one.

"Uncllle!" I call towards the till, making an educated guess that there wouldn't be any customers.

I saw a head peek above a music book stand.

"Hi, lad. 'and me those books over there."

I picked up the desired texts and made my way to the front of the shop, passing them to him then hopping over the counter.

"Had a good day, Stu?" He said, concentrating hard on the order of the band guitar tabs.

"Yeh, fanks. I got hit by a truck at break and then my English teacher sexually abused me on 'is desk while the whole class watched. He filmed it too."

"Tha's nice, mate."

It's a game I play almost every day: see what kind of disturbing things I can say that my Uncle will completely ignore. He stands up strait, cracks his back violently, and actually regards me, as he does at about this time every day.

"So, I'll be out tonight. You all right looking after the place?"

And I answer the same way as always: "Yeh, tha's fine."

He comes over and grabs his jacket off of the desk at the same time as ruffling my hair.

"You're a good kid, you know? Stay safe."

"You too."

And he darts off as quickly as possible, the call of alcohol and prostitution yelling loudly in his ear.

Bye, then.

My stomach rumbles as I realise I've accidentally gone another day without eating. No wonder I'm bloody skinny – I'm so air headed I don't remember to eat unless my body or someone else physically reminds me. Sighing and really REALLY feeling like left over Chinese takeaway, I wander through the door behind the desk and into the tiny kitchen me and Uncle share. It's not as dirty as you might think; Norman is a pretty bad OCD sufferer and relishes in scouring surfaces with bleach. It's not the worst affliction – tidy kitchens remind me of home.

And then I take back any positive thoughts I'd just had about him as the fridge which doubles as a drug storage unit comes into plain sight – it's been bolted. And he's taken the key.

"Twat." I utter with the last of my strength.

I lie down on the top of the desk after shuffling back into the shop and grab a few magazines from the side: porno, porno, porno, car mag, porno.

Then, buried at the bottom of the pile, I find a strange looking one. It's a deep blood red that causes my guts to shift uncomfortably and the palms of my hands to burn, though I don't know why, adorned with scrawling black letters littering the top. I gently open the cover and look inside at the contents – one article in particular strikes my attention.

 _I was cursed._

Feeling a strange rhythm in my heart I turn to the page (text written underneath a picture of a very fed up looking girl) and concentrate on the words. They jiggle about slightly, my horrendous reading barricading me from the full truth, but phrases like "He controlled me," and "after the ritual..." jumped out from the glossy paper like crickets.

Then I see the symbol emblazoned on the forehead of the girl, scarred to her skin: a little stick man. I can't remember how long I spent pouring over ever detail of that article, reading it, but not taking anything in, absorbed as if the world around me was inconsequential. If an alarm went off or the lights went out, I doubt I'd hear – by the time I manage to pry my eyes away the sky is navy blue.

I hear a noise and sit up sharply just in time to see the shop door slam and someone run off into the darkness of the night.

 _ **(Sound of loud, blaring music playing from clubs in background)**_

 _ **NARRATOR**_

"I said, 'ave you got it?" Hannibal was sighing angrily as he regarded his younger brother.

"Yes! Calm down, it's 'ere." Murdoc produced a bag of multi-coloured pills and nervously looked at the older sibling. His eyes searched the contents of the plastic critically; the almost luminous green colour had lost some of its brightness recently – too many late nights hanging out with the Niccals father, doing crystal in sleazy bars all over London. Murdoc was never invited to such gatherings, thank his lucky stars.

"Okay. It's all here." Han eventually decided, making the other exhale shakily – he didn't want to know what would happen if he'd have been stupid enough to loose some of the "rainbow."

"Now," he continued, "I don't want you selling in the joints – you'll get the shit beaten outta ya and _I'll_ loose my stock to whichever little girl was strong enough to over-power you." He gave a cruel smirk, leaning back against the smoke stained brick wall of the strip club where they had their little meetings.

"Okay. I'll, um, meet you back at the flat, then?" Murdoc asked expectantly, hoping to Satan he could just go to sleep and get this stressful day over and done with.

"Ha! You'd like that, wouldn't ya? Nah, I've got something else to keep ya outta trouble, mate." He signalled to a particular red haired henchmen who Murdoc thought might've been called Mark? He didn't know. Mark or Matt or whoever brought over a small brown paper bag and handed it to his friend.

"Right, Muds, this 'ere is some Angel Dust," the 18 year old's eyes widened and Hannibal tutted loudly, "Don't piss yourself, Myrtle, I just want you ta make a delivery fo' me. Here's the map." A tatty, stained piece of paper printed off the computer was handed over to the shaking teenager.

Murdoc started to slowly walk off, his loving brother calling "Try not ta fuck it up!" after him.

He wandered down the streets, posh birds looking distastefully as his unkempt goth look (if you could call it a "look" - he just threw most of it on), tarty girls trying to grab onto him in hopes of making some money and every last male completely ignoring him.

"Like I ever fuck it up... purposefully." He muttered to himself, squinting at the map. He should be asleep by now – hell, he shouldn't even be in London. There _was_ a good thing that had been going on back in Stoke with the band before he was whisked away by his psychotic family to make some drug money in the capital. He could leave them but... it had been made clear to him that wasn't an option.

" _Think I wasted all those years feeding you jus' so you can fuck off and leave me in my old age? Not a chance. Ya brother's a good kid and 'e needs_ your _sorry arse to 'elp him support our family. Blood's thicker than water, Murdoc."_

So, that was what Jacob Niccals thought on the matter, therefore it was gospel – no way around it. Murdoc was doomed to a Billy-no-mates life with the family. One thing was for sure; Satan was a lying bastard. He said life would get better after everything that happened...

Grey, sobbing eyes, matted cobalt hair and thin wrists flashed into his mind as he remembered the last few moments of his old life.

Then he pushed it out of his mind, because whenever he thought about the boy he had cared for so furiously, he almost felt he was touching him, exploring his mind and ruling his world. That couldn't happen. So he didn't think about him.

After trying desperately to follow the shit map, a sleazy bar came into view. Murdoc checked the paper - "Knife's Edge," that was the name... hadn't he known somewhere called that before?

He rapped on the door and almost instantly it cracked open, revealing a pair of grey, paranoid twitching eyes.

"Uh, delivery?" He tried. This better be the right address-

He was grasped by the front of the shirt and yanked through the door before it quickly being slammed shut.

"'ey my boy! Thought ya were gonna take all night! Got the item?" The man stood, or rather hunched, before him was balding slightly, with mousy brown hair and heavily aged skin – his collar bones stood out abruptly at the top of his messy work shirt; a tell-tale sign at his underweight state.

"Yeh, sorry." Murdoc produced the brown bag which was practically torn off of him (along with his hand) by the now hungry looking bloke. His tongue darted to his lips expectantly as he gawked at the contents. Before Murdoc flew out of the door in a quick dash to get away from the diseased looking room, he paused, and looked back.

The man looked ecstatic, but under that, sad. There was something _about_ him, maybe a feeling or even a memory of a feeling, something so faint it almost wasn't there. But it was.

"Uh," Murdoc raised a hand to the back of his head and played with his hair awkwardly, "you're okay, then?" What the fuck was he saying? "You don't... need anything."

The man seemed baffled, that someone would give a fuck if he (the waste of space so ostracised by the rest of his family they gave him the only _other_ disappointment – his nephew – to live with him, killing two birds with one stone) was all right, and instead of saying yes like most people, considered the offer – DID he need anything. And then a switch went on in his brain and he groaned.

"Oh fuck- the fridge!" He yelled and rushed over to the shocked goth, grasping his shoulders.

"Yes, I do need something, actually!" He continued. "My nephew, he's living with me and he's a skinny little sod – only remembers to eat once a day. But I've gone and locked the bloody fridge! Only I can't leave now," his dramatically turned and scanned the room before returning his gaze to Murdoc, "not when I've got this!" He held up the bag triumphantly.

"When I said _anything_ -" He tried to back peddle.

"I know! You meant it. Thank you, son. Take this to 'im will ya?" The boy suddenly felt a deep, sick feeling rise as he regarded what the grey-eyed man pressed into his palm. A long key, thin, plain with no details. Such a simple thing, but he remembered, once upon a dream, he'd held a key just like that. Memory was a fleeting thing, and left almost as soon as it had arrived.

"I'll give you a map."

How did people have all these maps lying around?

 _ **(Wish You Were Here – Pink Floyd)**_

Why? Why SATAN had Murdoc wanted to help that old man? He could be asleep right now, wishing his life away. At least that'd be useful.

The man had given him a tenner for doing this – he could just not turn up, throw the key in a bin and head home. But how old was this kid? The bloke didn't seem a responsible type, his nephew could be 10 for all he knew, scared and hungry waiting for his drunk excuse of a guardian to stumble home only to find he'd given the key to food to a random teenager. And, surprise surprise, all the money had been spent on drink. That hit too close to home, as Murdoc remembered his own childhood.

So he carried on watching the sky turn darker and darker and the people on the streets get more and more unsavoury as he continued his journey. Taxis whizzed past, carrying people places – places they wanted to be. That must be nice. Maybe that's how the kid felt, wishing he had a place he felt safe in.

The image of that little boy was so clear in his mind, skinny, pale, messy spikey hair- no.

He couldn't think about _him_.

Even if he did wish he was here.

The shop came into view, a faded sign that read "Uncle Norm's" (as depicted on the surprisingly spotless map bequeathed to Murdoc earlier) hung above the window.

He entered, creaking the door open gently so as not to startle whatever little creature was hiding around.

"Come on, beastie! I've got the key for you." Murdoc whispered. His experience with children was limited to say the least, but he knew not to be loud. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a person led on the desk. Okay, so not a child; a teenager.

He looked up and dropped the key on the floor.

Because led there, oblivious to anything going on around him, was Stuart Pot. He was longer than before, lanky legs hanging off the edge of the desk, and his blue hair was spikier, sticking out at odd angles making him more than a little resemble Sonic the hedgehog.

Murdoc almost got lost in thought as he remembered his old Guinea pig, Sonic, then he remembered his friend from three years ago was right in front of him, reading a magazine like no one in the world could get through to him.

He stared for a while - at the paper white skin and thin figure, the gentle frown creasing the tops of his eyebrows and the way his fringe fell back off his face due to how he was led - before Stuart began to stir, being brought out of whatever insane trance he'd been in. Maybe time had just stopped, and the space of thirty seconds Murdoc had just experienced was actually only a brief moment.

Before the now 15 year old boy could see him, Murdoc bolted for the door, hoping the key he had haphazardly dropped on the floor would be seen.


	2. Chapter 2

"What's up with you today?" comments Sam, watching me over the table in the canteen, suspiciously. It's cold out, as bloody usual, meaning I'm clutching a paper cup full of tea and staring out of the window at the billowing clouds, enjoying the melancholic chill it brings me. His words cause the others at the table – the few friends I'd been able to make in my time here – to look up from their fish and chips and pay minds to me.

"Nothing's up! Why?"

"You're being more quiet than usual... aaand you didn't say anything when Tasha walked past." The accentuated way he says her name causes a collective laugh from the others as my face turns as hot as my tea.

"Shut up."

"Aw, upset cause you missed 'er?" He suddenly goes silent and lowers his face back to his fried food, as do the rest of the boys on that side of the table.

"Wha-" I turn around and see Tasha, soft blue eyes staring out of her blonde cropped hair. She was chewing her lip nervously, shifting her weight from one foot to another.

"Hi, Stu." She says quietly.

"Uh, a'right, Tash? Hows it going?"

"Yeh, good thanks."

"Cool." There's a difficult silence between us, one shared by the fellow students in direct view of the situation. I start to VERY slowly turn back around with a polite smile before she quickly jabbers: "So, you going to the party tonight?"

There was a party tonight?

"Yeh, he's going." pipes in Sam before my sluggish brain can come up with a response.

"Great! I'll... see you there?"

"See ya there."

She scampers back to her table, grinning sheepishly. Tension relieved, everyone went back to their regular chatter.

"I am, am I?" I say to Sam, eyebrows raised. He gives me a punch on the arm.

"Unless you wanna be a virgin forever, yes, Stu."

I grinned – laughed and tried to act as though what he said hadn't affected me. But it did – I was fifteen and hadn't even started to think about... THAT. Or even who I'd do it with – although Sam seemed pretty certain he'd decided my eternal sex mate.

"So where is this party then?"

Sam half smiled, knowing he's won.

"It's a night club. You wouldn't know it – I think I've got a map in my bag though?"

A map? Weirdo.

 _ **(Everlong – Foo Fighters)**_

Everybody in sight was completely blitzed.

The loud music shook the bricked walls and floor of the vamped up warehouse, a rhythmic earth quake throwing high teenagers into the air along with the beat. One moment it was dark, like a cave, with all the fluorescent items in the room (beads, glow sticks, stolen police jackets) lighting up like glow worms; then it would all illuminate in bolts of green and pink and blue turning people's skin and hair strange colours depending on where in the room they were dancing.

"Get a _move on_ , mate! She's waiting." Sam yelled, clutching onto one of my shoulders to get his balance back and almost dragging me to the floor. The "she" he was referring to was Tash, dressed in a silver sequinned dress that reflected the multicoloured flashes, edging closer and closer to me as the song progressed. I slyly looked over my shoulder to take her in. Yes, she was pretty and yes, I fancied her. But something felt wrong...

"Hi." She'd snuck up behind me.

"Oh, hi there Tash." I stutter as I turn around quickly, almost knocking her over.

"I was thinking... maybe you want to dance?" She moved a little closer, if that was possible, making it very easy to smell her hair – it wasn't soft how I'd expected it to be, but spicy like chillies and cinnamon.

"I'm really not good at dancing-"

Like a bullet firing she replied, "We could do something else."

My brain drew blank. "Like... sit down?"

She didn't say anything, but gave a coy smile that didn't suit her pretty features. She took hold of my hand and roughly pulled me towards the door. My heart was racing as I understood what she meant and everything began to spin. This was what I wanted wasn't it? This is what every teenage boy strived for.

As she pulled me, I searched the crowd for Sam, hoping for some shouted guidance across the crowd. Who I saw wasn't Sam. I saw Murdoc.

Sam, Tash, the club, it was all as useless as everything else.

He saw me.

His eyes widened.

"Stuart?" Tash tugged impatiently at my sleeve. After a while of me being a statue she stormed off – maybe. I'm not really sure.

The longer he stood there and did nothing, the harder blood pushed through my veins and the more emotionally confused I became.

"What?" I managed to mouth at him.

He backed away towards the door and I moved closer, our steps in time with each other staying the same distance apart.

He ran.

 _ **NARRATOR**_

 _ **(Stop the Dams – Gorillaz)**_

"What do you mean he han't been selling?!" SMASH. A pint glass was hurled across the room and shattered into the space on the wall in-between the two Niccals brothers.

"Dad, he'd get killed! Look at him!" Retaliated Hannibal, gesturing to his sibling. Murdoc tried to look as un-scrawny as possible but knew he was failing. Jacob's hard eyes fixed onto him with a hatred you wouldn't believe a creature could feel for it's own offspring.

"He'll be worse than killed if I don't start seeing profit on my investments." He stood up lengthily and walked over to the young boy, every step more intimidating than the last, meandering like a snake ready to strike.

"Well, Murdoc? Would you like to be worse than killed, my boy?" He violently grabbed a handful of his hair and raised him off the ground causing a yelp. "You gonna answer me?" He bellowed, curling his fist tighter.

"No, Dad." He managed to utter through clenched teeth.

"Well that makes one of us then." He threw his son towards the wall. Han couldn't see due to his head being lowered but he heard the tremendous crack and smelt the blood almost instantly after.

He felt a finger under his chin raise his gaze to the twisted, sunken face of his father.

"You're a good boy. If he messes you around, lemme' know, yeh?"

"Yeh."

"Good." He patted him on the shoulder and staggered off to somewhere quiet and dark in the flat.

Hannibal exhaled and allowed himself to look at Murdoc. He was passed out on the floor, blood making his dark hair look wet and shiny, like a can of oil had been poured over it. This had been happening for so many years now, it was almost normal. He sat down on a stained arm chair adjacent to the body, it's duck egg blue colour turned yellow from copious amounts of abusive chemicals and abusive people over the years – it literally had the stuffing beaten out of it. Lighting up, he stared at the boy, barely 18 years old, who he'd known for the majority of his life.

" _Who is fucking_ knocking, _at this God damn hour?!"_

 _Jacob Niccals, 17 years younger and just as haggered, stumbled to the front door of the council house in Birmingham he shared with his son and almost ripped it off it's hinges._

 _Standing on the other side of the frame was a young red haired women, slim with a sensible ponytail and pretty freckles. The disgusted nature of the 28 year old creature turned instantly to perverse flirtation._

" _And 'ow can I 'elp_ you, _love?" He finished with a low chuckle, outstretching his hand to stroke a strand of her fiery locks. She looked at his fingers like one would a diseased maggot and smartly stepped away._

" _Good afternoon Mr Niccals."_

" _Afternoon... could've sworn-"_

 _She cut him off quickly. "I'm here with the social services."_

" _Social what? Oh, kiddy protection? I assure you, sweet 'eart, everything is going famously 'ere. Come and look at the little one. Lemme' get 'im. HANNIBAL! Come on, son." He yelled behind him and in an instant a minuscule child with mousy hair and large green, hungry eyes appeared behind his parent. He didn't speak, but looked up, questioningly._

" _S'alright lad, the lady," he purred that last word causing the girl to curl her lip, mortified, "just wants to 'ave a look at ya."_

" _That isn't actually why I came, although now you mention it-"_

" _No? Then spit it out, birdy, I'm a busy man."_

 _She glanced behind him, being met with empty beer bottles lit up in the darkness of the house by horse racing on the telly._

" _Clearly. No this is about, ahem... your wife."_

 _His arms dropped to his side and the attempt at a sultry expression became completely vulnerable._

" _Helen?"_

" _Mum?" Hannibal whispered, looking hopefully to the women._

" _Go back to your room. Now."_

 _Still staring, the child backed into the dim hallway._

 _Both adults were silent for a moment._

" _Is she getting... better?"_

 _She struggled to meet his gaze._

" _I'm only here concerning the child."_

" _But you just sent him away."_

" _Not him, Mr Niccals. No one was really aware about it until afterwards, it being such a premature birth, but Helen was pregnant." She motioned to somebody behind the blacked out glass of the car she arrived in to come forth. That somebody opened the door and began to walk up the path with a bundle._

 _Said bundle was handed over to the shocked father, revealing under its layers an underweight, ashy skinned baby. Dark eyes shone up at him._

" _She called him Murdoc." Said the girl, whom was actually called Liz, if Jacob would've been bothered to read her name badge instead of treating her as an object as he did every other women. Almost every other women._

 _Liz and the bringer of the child, a tall blonde haired man dressed in a sharp black suit and waistcoat walked back down the path with nothing else to say._

" _Wh-what about Helen?" He asked in a small voice._

 _Liz looked back at him with pity in her eyes and climbed into the car._

 _Even before the call came later that day bringing the news that Helen Niccals had drowned herself in the mental asylum, Jacob knew it. The child smelt of death._

 _He let out a wail and collapsed on the floor, Murdoc rolling carelessly out of his arms onto the grass. The broken man crawled into the house and in a couple of minutes had consumed an entire bottle of whiskey._

 _The child would've died._

 _I wouldn't be telling this story._

 _There would've been no Gorillaz._

 _But, as you know, he didn't - because a small scruffy boy had been watching from his bedroom window and cautiously came down the stairs, approached him, and lifted him up._

 _He didn't say anything like "I'm your brother" because they both knew._

Murdoc eventually got up.

"You all right?"

Murdoc glared at his kin in his most hateful way and growled: "Fabulous."

After a childhood of taking blames and beatings meant for his little brother, Hannibal had gotten in with the wrong crowd, left the house and left Murdoc to the lashing hatred with no protection. Guilt faded and when he realised the way to survive in that family house was being the second dog down in the pack. And when his father's words finally sunk in and started to take affect: "He killed your mother. My wife" things changed for the worse.

He walked over to the beaten up teenager.

"You're selling tonight. Don't fuck it up."

 _ **(Kill and Run – Sia)**_

So here he was tonight, in some teeny nightclub – selling.

Well, running.

Running away from Stuart.

"What?" He mouthed at Murdoc in disbelief.

Seeing him made a feeling grow in his soul, a rhythm that beat to the same time as the kid's heart. He could do anything with that rhythm, make HIM do anything. No. He... he couldn't.

Rushing through the door, Murdoc barged through a group of girls getting smashed off their high heels.

"Murdoc!" He heard him calling, heard his loud, awkward footsteps a little way behind but kept going. Deep in his memory, he could recall catching up with Stu the first time they met: was he still faster? He hoped to Satan.

"Murdoc!" Who's voice was that? A different one. It came from the other side of the road, but there was no time for chit chat with old acquaintances now – ESPECIALLY not the one gunning after him. Eventually he managed to disappear down an alley way and lost his pursuer.

Stuart stood in the middle of the pavement, feelings of disbelief and sadness rattling through his body as he gasped in shaky breaths.

Hannibal watched from the opposite side of the road – he _had_ been calling his good for nothing brother. Came to check up on him out of the fucking goodness of his heart. But then he caught sight of something far more interesting. A little blue bird.


	3. Chapter 3

**I think I need to explain myself! I forgot my password -.- Unforgivable. Stupid. But here's my new account! To sort of make it up here's the next chapter, I hope you all like it – IF anyone is dedicated enough to still actually read this story! If you are, you're a saint and I'm so sorry.**

 _ **(Raein – Olafur Arnalds)**_

BEEEP BEEP. BEEEP BEEP. BEE- SLAM.

My hand crashes down on top of the alarm clock, near smashing it. I don't feel like getting up – ever.

Despite this, now I _am_ awake, my eyes are refusing to stay closed. Scanning the room, I take in the few bare details I can see – translucent lace curtains that let the cold morning light through, an aged dusty mirror, the boring, brown wardro- wait.

My eyes flicker back to the mirror. Hm. I could've sworn I saw something there...

"Morning, sunshine." Norm calls from the kitchen as I pad down the stairs.

He's sat at the small fold out coffee table, scanning through the betting section of the paper. I notice there's an open bottle of bleach sitting on the plastic surface in front of him. I don't have the energy to mention anything...

"Yeh. Morning."

I flick the kettle on and start preparing the cups for the tea he's conveniently forgotten to make, snatching the key to the fridge almost bitterly as I remember his neglect the other night. And he says he got some random stranger to drop it off? Because he was busy "doing a charity run." Fucking hell.

"You better be having more than tea this morning, skinny. Your Mum didn't hand you over to me so you could waste away."

I sigh, undoing the padlock and getting out the milk. "Doubt she cares."

He puts his newspaper down with a force and tries his best to sound authoritative.

"Hey. Don't speak like that about your Mother, she loves you."

I meet his gaze and he melts instantly, salvaging what little he can of the situation by stuttering: "Well... your Dad does."

I raise an eyebrow. "I'll eat some toast if you stop making this awkward."

"Deal. Make some for me, will ya?"

A few more minutes of silence go by as I spread Marmite thickly on the slices and sip my tea.

"Have a look at this, mate – pick a lucky one for me will ya?"

I lick my fingers and rinse them in the sink. "No such fing as luck. And I don't know anyfing 'bout horse racing."

"Someone's contrary this morning. Come on, play along."

He's holding the newspaper out, the small gesture somehow meaning so much more. I take it from him, not because I have nothing better to do or because I want him to shut up, but because Dad never reminded me to eat my toast. And I'm grateful.

"Um... Raein."

"Raein? Doesn't sound very lucky."

"Suits the morning."

The morning's as cold as the light, autumn finally settling into London. Even if the weather didn't betray the season, you can tell what time of year it is by the excited children whizzing about, discussing their Halloween costume, the sweets they're going to gorge themselves on and the number of days left until Christmas.

"There's my virgin!"

I physically crumple in on myself. So... word's gotten out about the other night.

"Sam... would you-"

"Shut up? Not a chance." He bounds over to me and swings an arm over my shoulders. As we make our way towards the front doors of school I see girls giggling to themselves and boys looking generally amused. All right, word had REALLY gotten out. Well at least Sam seemed happy.

"I can't believe you wussed out – of sex! With Tasha!" He carried on.

"I don' even know why."

"I know why. You're secretly a very tall girl. OR you're gay," he raises an eyebrow seductively, "hey, maybe I shouldn't be getting so close to you."

I violently shove him off as hard as I can and try to block out his voice. Something which proves ineffective as he skips alongside me like a seriously annoying spaniel.

I sigh heavily. "Don' you 'ave somewhere t'be?"

"Yeh – school, here with you."

"Lucky me..."

"Aw come on mate, relax. It is Halloween after all."

I stop dead in my tracks and face him. "What, really?"

Sam looks confused and nods slowly.

"Shit."

"You didn't know?" He starts to cackle. "God you're dense."

I smile – there's something pretty affectionate about the way he says it. "And that's jus' how you like me."

"Yep – thick and easy to laugh at."

I carry on smiling, forcefully pushing all thoughts of Tash and stupid confusing parties out of my head. And the other thing. I'm not even going to acknowledge the other thing.

"So..." Sam pipes up again, "You DO remember the party tonight?"

Crap.

Since when did teenagers go to so many parties? What is this, SKINS?

 _ **(Chandelier - Sia)**_

It's not as mental as the other night – except for the trippy costumes and heavy alcohol abuse, but that's not so unexpected. And, thankfully, Tash isn't here so I don't have to be constantly watching my back for pissed off teenage girls all night: I decide to spend the majority of the time drinking and people watching from the sofa.

Alanna's all ready cried off all her cat make-up over Greg smiling at Jodie, which is why he's now mumbling apologies through the toilet door; a group of acid-fuelled youngsters are running and screaming from the host's cat chasing them (no doubt the image in their head being far more terrifying than the fake bat wings the poor creature's owner has tied to its body); I'm pretty sure Jude and Becca are having a serious fight with not so serious fake scythes.

Just as the fight starts to get a bit personal when Bec squeezes a bottle of fake blood over Jude's white "angel" dress (which is just her normal "slut" dress) my attention is switched to the door.

"Took ya time!" I shout at Sam at he stumbles through the front door carrying a half empty bottle of vodka.

"Promised, didn't I?" He looked like he'd been crying; his eyes had a red glow to them and his skin was pretty colourless. I quickly rushed over.

"You all right, mate?" I felt his forehead – he was burning up.

"Fine." He spat out angrily, pushing me away from him them commencing to glug from the sticky bottle.

I stumble back, confused. "Uh, sorry. Didn't mean to piss you off."

"Yeh, you never mean to do anything, do you..." He mutters to himself.

Just as I'm about to attempt an answer, a raven haired 14 year old comes and steals his attention, leaving me = having no fucking clue what's up.

After that I find some other people from my friend group, but can't help checking Sam's whereabouts every few minutes. Sometimes, in the increasingly smoky rooms, I see him drinking or making out with a girl, but other times I don't.

Suddenly there's a loud CRASH in the direction of the kitchen and, from my previous checks, I know that's the whereabouts of my friend.

He's shaking on the orange lino floor, a shattered bottle still clutched in his bloody hand. More vodka.

I dash through the door and roll him over, propping his head up on my lap.

"Sam! You're way too wasted – I need ta get you home."

He's too out of it to hear me, so I attempt to haul him up on his feet and, while doing most of the work, stagger through the door; he may be bulkier than me, but he's quite a bit shorter, so with extreme effort we finally find ourselves at his empty, cold house, up the stairs and into his room.

"Fuck, you're 'eavy." I mumble as I throw (can we call it "throw?" More like "flopped") him onto the bed, rubbing my stretched arms. He groans and makes a small sobbing noise that instantly causes me to forget about any kind of annoyance I had aimed in his direction.

"'Ey, come on, mate – what's up?" I gently place myself on his dark blue quilt and feel the bed give only slightly to my bird like frame. That reminds me... I never ate that toast. He doesn't say anything so I continue with a hand gently stroking his hot forehead. "You haven't been right all night."

At this he slowly turns his head to face me, the expression of someone so fucking confused taking over his normally cheery features.

"I don't feel right."

Before I can think of something to say to this he starts to sit up, making it far more difficult an activity than it has to be. When he's strait up and frowning at me so intensely I think my face might melt like that scene in Indiana Jones, he quietly whispers:

"You didn't have sex with Tash." Those eyes bore into mine like drills. Was it a question or a statement?

"N-no. Ya know that."

His still bloody hand raises to my face and I'm so confused I stay still like a freaked goat. His eyes soften and shift to the hand, rusty red streaks forming on my blanched skin as his finger tips trail down my face.

The voice that comes from that fucked up expression is ghostly, a little bit dead.

"I'm so confused."

He leans forward and licks the dried blood. I shudder from discomfort and what-the-hell-is-my-best-mate-doing-ness. When the kiss comes, I entirely expect it but that doesn't mean I'm prepared. It's soft and slow.

I think I might like it, if this wasn't such a messed up situation. I've always had this sense about my sexuality, in that I don't actually care about the SEX of the person. Murdoc proved that...

But Sam's my mate.

"Stop it, Sam." I murmur as my hand pushes his chest away.

He looks betrayed, eyes wide and teary. His voice turns cold.

"Go."


End file.
